Provocative stunner on some rich power trip assesses the view with critically painted eyes. Lids fluttering in an attempt to seduce a lower rate from the gate attendant who is indifferent and rude in her sensible shoes and ugly smock - refusing to make eye contact with the whore who's lipstick makes her feel insignificant and small - though, in her plainness she defines beauty beside one who tries so hard but fails...
Who shall he be? Shall he be young and beautiful? Dressed in innocence with beautiful brown eyes that sparkle with mischief and humor? Or shall he be older (though not passed 50) with a Travolta chin and salted hair that falls across a forehead smooth with the memory of childhood peace? Or shall he be tall and 30 and happy to see me with long hair and a Lennon grin, relieved to watch me come through that gate, late but appreciated, ready to take me home to bed...
So I'm late. And who's fault is that? None but the one who forgot to hang the signs to direct us where to go. And now in my lateness I am six hours early, destined to fill six hours watching people pass me - happy to come and go - women experimenting with different ways to use their breasts in an attempt to get their way only to discover there's no such things as a free coffee. 36D pays $2. 34A pays $2. So the boob job wasn't really worth it, was it? It only took me two minutes to write this. Maybe 36B will get me a coke...
The carpet looks as though it's been vomited on enough to warrant a new one but the chairs are comfortable and soft and green. There are clouds on the wall but they look digital - blown up too big for the pixels. I like the checkered flags they have wrapped around the poles - advertisement for the Grand Prix or something equally as masculine. They dress things up (in a testosteroney way). The man sitting across from me has left. I don't remember him leaving. He was there. Now he's not. Wonder who he was meeting? He seemed sad...
And here is love: at the International Arrivals gate where loved ones dance and await the return of those gone too long...
And here is love: stamping his two-year-old feet, asking, "where is mommy?" and "can I get a treat?"...
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